Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/Tobacco

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Tobacco.
This Indian weed now withered quite,
Though green at noon, cut down at night,
    Shows thy decay;
    All flesh is hay;
      Thus think, and smoke tobacco.

The pipe, so lily-like and weak,
Does thus thy mortal state bespeak;
    Thou art e'en such,
    Gone with a touch:
      Thus think, and smoke tobacco.

And when the smoke ascends on high,
Then thou behold'st the vanity
    Of worldly stuff,
    Gone with a puff:
      Thus think, and smoke tobacco.

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And when the pipe grows foul within,
Think on thy soul defiled with sin;
    For then the fire
    It does require:
      Thus think, and smoke tobacco.

Thou seest the ashes cast away,
Then to thyself thou mayest say,
    That to the dust
    Return thou must:
      Thus think, and smoke tobacco.

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